"scribing" poems
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
again, madness!
one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?
why?
must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:
“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”
no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!
your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.
the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.
here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>
But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:
*”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.*”
A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out
these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.
<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.
a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Under silver wing
San Francisco's towers sprouting
thru thin gas clouds,
Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure
Berkeley hills pine-covered below--
Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence
Declaration
typewriter at window
silver panorama in natural eyeball--
Sacramento valley rivercourse's Chinese
dragonflames licking green flats north-hazed
State Capitol metallic rubble, dry checkered fields
to Sierras- past Reno, Pyramid Lake's
blue Altar, pure water in Nevada sands'
brown wasteland scratched by tires
Jerry Rubin arrested! Beaten, jailed,
coccyx broken--
Leary out of action--"a public menace...
persons of tender years...immature
judgement...pyschiatric examination..."
i.e. Shut up or Else Loonybin or Slam
Leroi on *** gun rap, $7,000
lawyer fees, years' negotiations--
SPOCK GUILTY headlined temporary, Joan Baez'
paramour husband Dave Harris to Gaol
Dylan silent on politics, & safe--
having a baby, a man--
Cleaver shot at, jail'd, maddened, parole revoked,
Vietnam War flesh-heap grows higher,
blood splashing down the mountains of bodies
on to Cholon's sidewalks--
Blond boys in airplane seats fed technicolor
Murderers advance w/ Death-chords
Earplugs in, steak on plastic
served--Eyes up to the Image--
What do I have to lose if America falls?
my body? my neck? my personality?
June 19, 1968
4.5k
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought
From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter
Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment
since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth
Exhibiting the myth of danger
alongside
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...
—————————————————-
“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
or
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Heaven's gates open in beat with my eye lids
As we stumble in sweet confusion
We can taste the air as an ostrich wine
And the only sounds are angelic choirs joined in mirth
The walls are painted scenes blessed in eternal movement
With God himself scribing the tales
Telling stories of triumph merged in harmony
And penmanship worthier than any poet
Men docilely behold grace itself on the walls of heaven
Ever worthy of the eyes of mankind
Of those who stole a glance turn to gold
And immortals join in ritual
The sense of sight, light, is portrayed as holy crystals
Incandescent stalagmites create divine paths for righteous to follow
While those lost in damnation are lead to eternally fall
As the path lingers the walls inspire a revelation in ones heart
Blessing all who listen, with God's word
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
I am writing a new story,
but don't look here for the narrative,
because
I am not writing it with these words you think you are reading,
or the patience that I have found.
I am penning this new manuscript,
and all the illuminating circumstances that make those reading
wish they were the characters in the joy-tear-jerking plot,
the parts everyone passes eyes over in order
to make their own lives richer...
I am scribing my way through to the end
not with words, letters, jots, tittles,
but with
actions.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I sit in stuffy dormrooms or walk through hallways
I crouch at desks to copy and paste old thoughts
I jog from toilet to shower to make it to class on time
And still I am three minutes late, like I
Wrote in my little notebook that “I have to stop
Letting my desire for something supersede my feelings for the individual people in my life”
But even as I wrote it
Pissingdrunk against the side of my friend’s pink house
I didn’t know what I meant, scribing only
So that I could figure it out later:
What the hell I meant by ‘desire’
What the hell I meant by ‘something.’
I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I’m called upon to have opinions,
To finish my homework
To take out the trash
Or
To define ‘desire’
To define ‘something’
And then to flip the supersedence around,
Yes I am called upon by myself and myself only
So I’m not gonna finish my ******* homework today.
I’m gonna let the trash continue to rot.
I’m gonna define ‘desire’ as a product of rational society
And I’m going to define ‘something’ as the oppressor class
And I will fly past these nets
Like a proud and bold Icarus to
Sit on my bike
Remaining and lingering
As I move through temporal space.
And then I will love.
I will be loved.
I will be subject.
I will be humanized.
From an axiological point of view,
Anyway.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
Old Mother’s hands shook,
When pouring my tea
And I’d
Savor the scent of hyacinth.
Old Mother’s hands shook,
When scribing time
And I’d
Wed her fatherless daughter.
Old Mother’s hands shook,
On cloud, under crevice,
And I’d
Lift her cup to lip;
Old Mother’d drink,
Her hands, like the trees,
And we’d
Both cry tears of ecstasy.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
The scholar sits by candlelight
Pouring over many a forgotten volume
Left behind by his ancestors
to reveal unto him,
The secrets and majesty of the world
His tired eyes move over scripture
Marked with the ink stain of experiences past
And cerebral treasures long forgotten to modern man
The scholar sits by candlelight,
Scribing into parchment the secrets of his days
For his grandsons grandsons to find,
And pour their tired eyes over the volumes,
Marked with ink stains of experiences past
Cerebral treasures still long forgotten..
The scholars hand still scribes away
For the best understanding of today
Lies in the knowledge of yesterday
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
I heard the shot behind the hill,
Pausing to log the dull report,
Thinking that death - or deaths – unseen
Were manifested out of sight,
Not mind. Swift shocks of rising birds
Spoke of events my mind inferred.
A feathered body writ in flight
Spirals into closer view.
Fluttering quills, the uttering beak,
The watchful eye, the scribing claw.
But all of it has come to ground –
On the verge, a body, found
In dull and heavy silence. This
Is not the body I heard shot
But an old **** The blood
Dried up, the eyes tight shut,
Half-open beak eternally
Clamp-locked in silent cry.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:08 AM UTC
Beaugelic quempress,
A Serentifying archipelago
We shalt repose; nearby a
Bryefire, burning liquid's
Of scented rose. Gardenia
Perfume, to sheen ourn
Outer layer's; scribing
Of the almighty, inscribed
Into ourn conscious, galaping
Another's inviting. Extraciting-
Anjarising, O' flambustic passing;
Her cherithronius' marble foundation,
Hast given me solid ground, wherein
I heareth the most karstrett of once was
Lost, now found. Darshaying in Romanticism's
Prism; making drum beat's to **** street's,
And archaic rhythm's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
But you are a galaxy
I am merely the moon
orbiting your existence
in an attempt to brighten your surroundings
and nervously contribute to the art that you are
if you are rain
I am a cloud
made up of tiny parts of you
my existence obtaining no other purpose
other than consisting solely of you
growing inside of me
to display you to the world as you proudly pour out of me
if you are a book
I am the blurb
a review
a quote of redcommendation
boasting your brilliance
gleaming with pride
whilst simply being overlooked with no credit
but
if I were a galaxy
you would be the higher power that created me
and if I were a cloud
you would be the sun
as you become present
I would merely disappear behind your greatness
making my grey hue succumb into melting into your light
until I am no longer what I was to begin with
and if I were a book
you would be the author
personally scribing sentences into the pages of my mind
hand carving each word carelessly
without any idea just how important the story that will be created,
as a result of your actions, will be
and you continue to scratch away
not caring about wearing down the fabric of who I am
because I am only pine
and you are mahogany
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Today I shall etch as sculptor
upon marble vellum tablet,
scribing with tool of pen.
Carving process moves within breath.
With sitting position of arched back.
Then, I shall exhibit landscape in HP Museum.
Hanging its colorful masterpiece
in hopes it will be in front room.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
Rain falls quietly on my windowpane
Drowsiness overtake my own sedation
Truthfully I'm lost dropping down in vain
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Yet finding peace in time
Is dropping down softly
For you and me to enjoy in summer time
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Whatever happens during the storm
I'll be there, and I mean no harm
Listen to Zeus's masterful charms
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Oh rain falls quietly on my windowpane...
Scribing my pains away into the night
Charmed by the God of Rain
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Clouds cry sometimes
Often sublime in a lifetime
Don't worry loved one
Your not the only one
Oh, listen to the rain, its begun
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 12:04 AM UTC
Inspired by Tonya Riddle,
Wife, Mother, Sister,
Nurse, Poet, Gardener,
and a
friend
<>
The littlest things you all say, the lightly remarked,
or weighty beloved ones, 100% guarantee a smile
or a tear, no difference, but all press me to grab
the nearest papyrus, to ink that notion, an
untimely timely near midnight revelation,
requiring a scribing to permanent-seal that moment’s
custom potion, via magnification.
It ain’t easy, kinda of reverse curse from
the many wintry months of the ‘tion’s absence:
motivation, inspiration, perspiration go
on a round-the-world cruise and when
they don’t invite you along, in-truth,
semi-secretly, poetry is kinda de-relevationed (less urgent)
For I have seen a picture, a memorial garden bounteous,
Jordan’s Garden,
so late night, kind words exchanged in reciprocation,
as we both stagger gently into sleep and a new
twenty-four, and here, and I hear, the realization
thoughts inescapable, demanding: creation, visitation,
& ****** a instantion ripening and
Fruition.
A lovely word this one, for it’s strawberry season
on the north fork of the isle, accompanied by
imported Carolina peaches,
and when the roadside farm stands offer them for
sale, included is a a couple of paper towel slices,
for the fruition juices runneth over
(stain stick not included)
So just before midnight, the electrons and (t)ions inform
that tonight, a calming of words, revelations of affection,
salve the grieving heart that runneth over
which surely was my intention,
as well as a celebration of commemoration, and in
calming you friend, my eyes wet, not realizing, that
I’ve written a smile upon my lips, a precursoration to a
rarity, a well and good night’s sleepy and hallowed
restoration.
7:47 AM Mon Jun 26
Jun 26, 2023
Jun 26, 2023 at 5:52 PM UTC
.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
*alas, the same promise,
yet again, broken, no more writing of
the lightness of perfection so real,
it cannot be a truly,
a man's one more poetic homage to improve upon nature's gift,
nary a single craft to be seen,
tho somewhere, a motor hums nearby,
a mechanical reminder that men
will intrude, even if unobserved,
not necessarily then,
a picture complete
the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its AM reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both on a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature
that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
it's childlike insistence,
stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world,
"write of me, attention must be paid!"
the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection
a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance
in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure
my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to
la vie en rose,
our wine, snatching the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice,
to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of inviting, dying rays of setting,
answering the question, a long last finale,
here, here is shelter!*
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
Every time, you try-
counting time in quarter tones,
scribing rhymes on android phones
the great design-
monochrome
As light's define
then they postpone,
another chance
To be alone
to change one's mind
To go back home.
would you always maybe sometimes make it easy take your time
in the foreground
and then back;
we reflect
as we react
&
wallow, in
the nighttime's black;
cinder's splinters trace us back.
Dec 20, 2023
Dec 20, 2023 at 1:35 AM UTC
Mystery compels his curiosity,
and he's curious about everything like a child.
Revealing his ticking gears in a timely fashion.
He used to wear his passions and
his heart strung out on the sponge's sleeve,
But it only brought pain; deposition from grief
*So the gift I bereave to you from the ashes of the old me is someone honest and true, who takes chance's Pitfall into consideration. Scribing my words to you how a Phoenix sheds it's plumes. No more I love you's until I feel you saying I love you too.*
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
The last drop of fuel
has vanquished within the fog
of vacuous steam,
and the words are asphyxiated
by the author's incompetence
before his toes even tap
upon the starting line.
It's even a hassle
scribing these simple words
without grinding my teeth,
headbutting defeat,
and fixing the channel
with which I once could
transform the bulging of veins
into the unraveling of stanzas.
With a pitter-patter here
and a tick and tock there,
the hourglass spins itself towards nausea
and still no denouement
from a muse that replaced burning passion
with a scalding charcoal mind.
How could I let them get to me?
How could I let them make mockery
and triviality of the art
held with the greatest sincerity,
leaving me a pigpen
of unanswered questions
tinged with urgent frustration?
Did I really just end this with a question?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
Where is the child
Who has moved through thirty winters
Since he watched his father
Try to bowl a cricket ball
And who, by careful coaching elsewhere
Understood, that the action of his arm was wrong,
Scribing through the child’s unblemished run
Of seven faultless summers, a clumsy arc,
Which sent the ball too wide,
And called from restless slumber
A spectre of uncertain shape and size.
Where is the child
Who saw his father’s failure
Force derision from each watcher’s eye
And shared their scorn, yet was ashamed.
Where is the child
Who learned too fast
The legacy of adoration,
And impotently sent imaginings
From fevered nights to boil
Each mocking eye in blood.
Where is the child
Who felt confusion; anger,
Then, the dormant seed of virulent contempt
Germinate, strike root, grow, bud and bloom,
Finding instantly, a fallow vein
In which to flower for his father’s sake.
Where is the child?
Where is the child now?
His desolation lives between these lines.
His uncomprehending eyes plead from every word,
At each full stop he mutely tries to speak.
Just once, his hand stretched from this page
To touch my own.
©James Rainsford 2010
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 11:08 AM UTC
Wading in a muddy riverbed,
panning for broken pieces of
pretty blue bottles that
glint in the
sun's rays like
azurite
Upstream,
without warning,
a deafening cry
of impending cathexes
The river surges
gasp...
rushes,
tosses,
thrashes me
in mysterium tremendum flow
and a flurry of foaming crests
I bathe in effervescence and
glide through
torrential sentiment,
submerged in
cosmic love
...sigh
Crawling from this eddy transcendence,
trembling
precariously up the shoreline
to rest in his arms of
fiery brilliance
gasp....
....
....sigh
to set him ablaze with
Divine oxygen that
beads from my
velvet lips like
dew drops, and
coo giggling whispers in his
ear of
soft, tender
reflections,
as he feeds to me
crackling embers that
surge to my
heart centre with
volcanic intensity
Reciting a story
sui generis
nested like Matryoshka,
the ever-unfolding opus,
tangled in sheets of
layers
upon
layers
of papyrus,
scribed
and
scribing
Oh, to wake in such a dreamscape.
sigh
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
inspiration derives from the evocation of thought
symbolism, at times, can be cataclysm for the mind
and yet when one looks to be inspired,
until they are weary and tired,
when the earth’s ends,
can hold no trends,
they find themselves incapable,
and often times improbable,
of complimenting anything,
while criticizing everything,
and God forbid they stop and think
and look at it as a human being,
and as their ship begins to sink
a blast of thought comes after seeing
the black from scribing
eroded with the wind rising,
off the shores of the brain
to a vocabulary train,
delivering written ammunition,
after being petitioned,
and so the gallant author knight,
the reader-maiden’s arousing delight,
with his holy-tipped sword of ink
slays the scroll dragon in a blink
lawfully fixated,
and well compensated,
they sit back relieved,
finished with what had them aggrieved
until a source of new light,
causes rupturing delight!
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
I flourished in a town bound by darkened facades
as shadows creeped along its soot filled walls;
I'd daydream and words came to me, in whispered
curlicues...faint but, envisioned while they lingered
3 dimensional...dangling.
Giving me a voice in syllabic ruminations like a
rhythmic drip drip from a faucet; I set sight on its
auditory ping and I'd sing its lulling lullaby verse
by verse; scribing thoughts that unleashed itself
from inner walls of me.
Gleaning the taste of poetry from mind and savoring
its aftertaste in the pit of my soul, steadily scribing.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC